


Tumblr prompts

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Character Death, Elyan - Freeform, Elyan/Arthur, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Gwaine/Percival - Freeform, M/M, Suicide, Tumblr Prompt, perwaine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5552960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>asks from Tumblr. I'll post individual warnings for the fics, so if a tag doesn't sound good to you but you still want to read something, you can avoid the chapter with it in.</p><p>For those of you after Elyan/Arthur- chapter four<br/>For those of you after Perwaine- chapter five<br/>the rest are Merthur</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Office

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Polomonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/gifts), [glim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/gifts).



> WARNINGS: I'll post on each chapter respectively. All in all: suicide, character death, grief/mourning, homophobic language (relatively mild)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin asks Arthur to fake date him, and Arthur sort of agrees. The deception gets bigger and bigger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: homophobic language

“Arthur I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend of eight months kay thanks bye!” 

Arthur looks up from the news-site he’s browsing, catching a glimpse of Merlin’s skinny arse as Merlin beats a hasty retreat. Arthur looks over at Elyan, who’s using Arthur’s office because of some kind of rain problem (”It’s not a ‘rain problem’, Arthur, it’s a my-office-is-flooded problem. Why does IT have to be in the basement? This isn’t the IT Crowd!” -Elyan, three hours ago, right before storming up and commandeering Arthur’s office for himself).

“Did Merlin just-” Arthur starts.

“Yup,” Elyan says, not looking up. 

“I can’t believe-”

“This’ll be, what, the sixth time?” Elyan says.

“Yeah, but those other times it was him pretending to date me. This way round it’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Why?”

“He’s my boss. He can’t order me to do that. Can he?”

Elyan looks up, but only to roll his eyes. He’s trying to fix Vivian’s computer, to be fair, and she always manages to do all kinds to shit to them. Last time she borrowed an office laptop, it came back so riddled with virus’s Elyan now uses it as a scare story, for new IT recruits. AND she managed to get the computer to catch on fire. 

“It’s taking advantage,” Arthur presses. 

“Arthur, you’ve known Merlin since we were all in college. Besides, he’s only your boss in so much as he is technically higher than you on the chain, he doesn’t have anything to do with your artsy-fartsy department.”

“I should be higher up on the chain,” Arthur grumbles.

Elyan doesn’t respond. To be fair to him, Vivian’s computer chooses that moment to blast out Taylor Swift. So. Three hours later, Merlin comes by, in a suit. Merlin does sometimes wear suits, because he has to for meetings and board reviews and events, but he never wears one when he doesn’t have to. Either he’s trying to impress someone, or he’s forgotten the day again and thinks it’s a ‘big boss is in’ day. 

A mousy woman follows Merlin in, and Arthur immediately recognises her as Merlin’s mother. He knows it’s her because Merlin has that exact smile. All that glowing pride. Arthur forgives Merlin, because often that smile is directed at him. 

“I told Mum we’d take her to lunch, Arthur,” Merlin says, “can you free up any time?”

Arthur looks at the game of online scrabble he’s playing with Lancelot, and shrugs. He could forfeit, but that’s like losing. He looks up at Merlin, and Merlin gives him the squinty, constipated look that means he Expects. Arthur usually has no idea what Merlin expects. This time it’s fairly obvious, he supposes. He forfeits. Lancelot lets out a ‘whoop’ from the studio and skids past the office door on a desk chair, arms in the air. Arthur’s very pleased when Lance hits the bump in the floor and goes sprawling.

“I can make time,” Arthur says, getting up. “Elyan, you have the office. If you leave, lock up, I’ve got Betsey here today.”

“His camera,” Merlin says, scowling. “Her name is Sandra, Arthur. Remember?”

“Do I really remember?” Arthur asks, picturing drunk Merlin, wrapped in a towel and not much else, acting out Sandra to show how good a name it is. “All that night? Do I remember?”

“Oh. Right. No, no, I don’t suppose… Betsey, really it’s a… yes! Lunch!” Merlin says, dragging Arthur out of the office. “Mum, this is Arthur, the boy I’ve been talking about. Arthur, this is my mother Hunith.”

“Nice to meet you,” Arthur says, peering over his shoulder. 

Hunith’s following, face placid and smiling. She raised Merlin, Arthur thinks, and feels deep, deep respect for her. It’s not until they reach the restaurant Merlin’s picked out that Arthur realises what it is he’s sort-of-by-omission-agreed-but-still-agreed to do. It begins with Arthur ordering garlic bread and olives.

“Oh, you know what he likes,” Hunith says, “That’s wonderful. How long have you been together, again?”

“I’ve known him since sixth form, Mum,” Merlin says, quickly, “we got together eight months ago. You know? When Alice brought her niece to that party, and you wanted me to date her, but I couldn’t? Because of Arthur?”

“I thought you were-” Arthur starts, but Merlin glares, and Arthur says the ‘gay’ very quietly. 

He keeps very quiet most of the time, actually. Hunith asks a lot of questions, and Merlin jumps in quickly to answer, before Arthur can even open his mouth. He seems to have a lot worked out: their first date- a film and dinner; how many kids they’re going to have- ‘Mum! it’s so soon! Three’; what Arthur’s favourite ice cream is- Cookie Dough (it’s not, it’s vanilla); whether they’re having Christmas together- yes. Arthur starts at that, and opens his mouth. Merlin kicks him. 

“I would have loved to come with you and Gaius to Great Aunt Tilda’s,” Merlin says, “but we’ve made plans to have a little, private Christmas. I’ll come to you on the twenty sixth.”

“Ah,” Arthur says. 

He’s heard ALL about Great Aunt Tilda. Homophobic, racist, misogynistic and very much against Merlin’s existence as a ‘bastard’. Then, Merlin has to go to the loo. 

“I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable with all these questions,” Hunith says. “You seem shy.”

“Oh, not really,” Arthur says, “Merlin’s just likes doing the talking, and I don’t mind one way or the other, so… it works.”

That’s not a lie. Merlin does usually do most of the talking. Usually Arthur can’t get a word in. He really doesn’t mind, either. He’s used to it now. Used to letting Merlin run himself down, used to listening or listening enough to prove he’s been listening when he hasn’t been listening. 

“Have you really thought about children?” Hunith asks, “I know Merlin said three. I would very much like a grandchild.”

“We’ve talked a bit,” Arthur says, vaguely, not wanting to get her hopes up, “I’m not really sure about being a Dad. My own father leaves much to be desired, and it’s made me a bit trigger shy.”

Arthur flushes. He hadn’t meant to say that. 

“Then take your time. I’m not going to pressure you. I had Merlin too soon, really. His father and I… it was too much for Bal. He wasn’t able to… Of course, he came back. It would have made it so much better, if we’d waited a few years. Now he’s too different, and I’m too different, and we’ve lived lives apart.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, clearing his throat. “Um. Yeah. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be! I’ve enjoyed my life, and I love Merlin. I don’t regret any of it. I only meant I can respect you wanting to wait until you feel more confident about it, and that I won’t push.”

“Thank you.”

They walk back to the office, Merlin explaining to his mother just what it is he does and reassures her that while, yes, marketing is very corporate and yes, it is quite different from what Merlin saw himself doing, he loves it. Arthur’s not paying enough attention, and is left with Hunith again, in the studio, while Merlin goes to the loo again. 

“There’s seriously something wrong with him,” Arthur mutters, shaking his head. 

Hunith laughs, and Arthur flushes, remembering she’s there. He’ll swear, afterwards, that it’s his blush that attracts Gwaine to the scene. 

“He always had been like that,” Hunith says, “when he drinks coffee.”

“I’ve had a really nice lunch,” Arthur says, realising it, “thank you. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

“And you, too. I’m very glad you’ve decided to take Merlin on. You seem like a good choice, for him. The last man he dated was just… not what I hoped for, for him.”

“You’re dating Merlin?” Gwaine asks, sidling up. 

“Um,” Arthur says, looking around for Merlin, “yes? Yes, I am.”

“How did I not know this?” Gwaine asks, “oi! Lancey pants! Did you know Merlin and Arthur were doin’ the dirty?”

“Doing the dirty?” Arthur mouths. 

“Nope,” Lance says, popping out from under the desk. 

“What were you doing under there?” Arthur asks.

“Merlin and Arthur are Arlin? No, Merthur. Merthur’s better,” Elyan says, appearing from behind the stack for wet work. 

“Um,” Arthur says.

Merlin appears. Arthur wants to say no. But Hunith’s right there. He nods. He watches Merlin introduce Hunith to the others. He backs away, slowly, but Hunith catches him and kisses his cheek and thanks him for taking Merlin on, again. Arthur nods, and dashes for his office. 

Merlin comes and finds him, a couple of hours later. Elyan’s tucked himself into a corner again (”What are you even doing in here? Usually you’re out there, doing all your designer-y shit” Elyan complained. Arthur had muttered something about paperwork, which Elyan translated as ‘hiding’) and he gives Arthur a grin and settles himself deeper in to watch.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, and it’s already wheedling, just his name. Arthur groans. “Please. They all think it’s true.”

“Elyan doesn’t,” Arthur says. “Merthur. You’re such a cad!”

Elyan smiles serenely, then laughs and gives Arthur a look full of affection and amusement.

“It’s just so easy sometimes,” Elyan says, “and I’m right: Merthur IS better than Arlin.”

“Neither of them are good! You were just egging Gwaine and Lance on. I’m not pretending, Merlin. It’s stupid.”

"I fake-dated you," Merlin says. 

"For a day. Two at most!"

“But,” Merlin says, and Arthur can see him lining up his argument, “they think it’s true. I could just tell them, but it’s already spread around the office. I’ve had two invites to double date, and three to dinner with people I want to network with and have been trying to get invites from for ages!”

“Dinner parties.”

“Yes,” Merlin says, encouragingly. “Free food, Arthur. Godwin emailed to add a ‘plus one’ to my event invite for next month, too. Um, oh. Also. Morgana rang and yelled at me for a while. I don’t think she got it out of her system, she’ll probably want to yell at you, too.”

“How does Morgana know?” Arthur says. 

Elyan hums and looks at the ceiling, tucking his phone into his pocket.

“Right,” Arthur says. “Gwen. You two are such gossips. It’s. Not. Real!!”

“Pleeease?” Merlin says. 

Arthur sighs. Then catches himself. 

“No. No! You two keep talking me into things! I ended up half way up Ben Nevis with a duck last time we had to do team-work training! the duck got cold!”

“That was a good one,” Elyan says, sniggering, “you really are easy.”

Arthur’s phone rings, before Arthur can throw anything.

“What?” Arthur says, picking it up.

“Arthur, darling! What if it had been your boss?” Morgana purrs into his ear.

“My phone only has the ‘psycho’ theme for you,” Arthur snaps. 

“Good,” Morgana says, more a snarl than a purr, now, and Arthur belatedly remembers she’s cross. “I needed you to say something stupid. You stupid fuck! How have kept this a secret from me?! I like Merlin! Are we going to marry him? That will be amazing!”

“We? We’re not going to do anything! It’s not-”

“At least can we keep him? He’s nice, and he’s a great companion for people watching. He’s so sharp.”

“Mean, you mean,” Arthur says. 

“That too. And I like his cooking.”

Arthur pauses, frowning. Merlin can’t even cook eggs. Then he remembers Merlin telling him about buying take-out and not daring to admit it to Morgana. He shakes his head at Merlin, who offers a smile. 

“We can’t keep him,” Arthur says. 

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop,” Morgana says, “seriously though, love, I think it’s good. I’m really glad that you’ve done this. Not the secret part- didn’t you learn from the summer of 2010? We don’t keep secrets from our twin sisters. Hmm?”

“I learnt,” Arthur says, obediently. 

“Good. But I do love you, and he’s nice, and you deserve it. I’m kind of proud of you, for taking something seriously for once. For allowing yourself something good.”

“I…” Arthur says. 

But Morgana uses that tone so rarely. He likes that tone. It’s a fond tone. It’s a soft tone. She’s usually so loud and un-fond. He finds himself giving in. 

“Yeah,” Arthur says, giving up, “Yeah. It’s good.”

Merlin beams at him, and Elyan whispers ‘sucker’. Arthur thunks his head down onto his desk and listens to Morgana plan his wedding to his fake boyfriend. 

Fake dating Merlin turns out to involve a lot of things that real dating Merlin would involve. They have to go watch films at the cinema, because Merlin keeps telling people they’re doing it as a date and then they have to see the film in case anyone asks about it and they might as well see it together. Arthur’s a bit dubious, but Merlin’s sure. He tells people they’re going to see the indi cinema’s showing of ‘Rpsemary’s Baby’. 

Arthur doesn’t realise what it is they’re watching. He is not at all prepared. He hates every minute of it, and he holds onto Merlin’s hand so hard that there are red marks for hours afterwards. Merlin apologises, but not until after Arthur’s thrown up and had to leave halfway through. 

“I don’t like horror films,” Arthur says, shivering. 

Or shaking. He’s trembling, maybe. It’s cold, too, though. He’s leaning against the wall outside. 

“It’s old. It’s not that scary.”

“I just don’t like them. I don’t like the suspense. Or any of it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ll have to let me sleep at your house.”

Merlin ends up letting Arthur sleep in his bed, and Merlin turns out to be a much better hugger than you’d guess from his skinniness. He also turns out to be much less skinny under his clothes than you’d guess. 

“You should wear tighter clothes,” Arthur mumbles, soaking up Merlin’s warmth. 

Merlin just laughs and strokes his hair. It’s rather nice. 

Then there are the dinners. The first double date goes okay- it’s boring, innocuous. The second one they go somewhere fancy, and Merlin drops his glass, and knocks red wine into Arthur’s lap.

“I’m so sorry!” Merlin says. 

“No, no,” Arthur says, mopping himself up, “they’re dark trousers. It’s fine.”

Merlin looks forlornly at Arthur’s damp crotch. Arthur shifts. Clarence, from over the table, clears his throat. 

The third dinner, a dinner party, Merlin spends networking. Arthur doesn’t know anyone, so he sits like a lump through dinner, and afterwards Merlin drinks brandies with ‘the men’ and Arthur sits in the livingroom with ‘the girls’. Arthur catches the moment the hostess doesn’t know what to do with him. There’s a moment, when everyone rises to split, that Arthur sees her calculating which of them is the ‘woman’ of the relationship. Arthur helps himself to plenty of wine.

“Arthur, you’ll know this. What’s the name of the fashion designer responsible for that monstrosity Vivian Olafson wore to the last fundraiser?” one of the women says. 

Arthur knows the answer. He’d actually liked the dress. He mutters the name, and pours himself another large glass. They ignore him, after that, and soon forget he’s there. Very clearly forget he’s there. 

“I know they have marriage, now, but Sandra was saying how she had to let the gays stay at her hotel, now. I mean, it’s not that I disapprove of them, but I’m not sure I’d like them sleeping under my roof. I’m not sure it’s hygenic.”

Arthur makes himself as small as possible. He’s got wine, he’s got plenty of wine, it’s all fine. When Merlin comes in, with two other men, Arthur leaps up from the sofa. He staggers a little, and Merlin steadies him with an arm around his waist, face splitting into a smile. 

“Are we going home?” Arthur asks, too loudly, pressing his forehead to Merlin’s shoulder. 

Someone laughs. Someone says something about ‘the little woman’ having too much to drink. Merlin laughs. Arthur wants more wine, but he can’t remember where the bottle is. Merlin deposits him back on the sofa and talks to the man who made the ‘little woman’ comment. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, interrupting. 

“I’m so sorry,” Merlin says, “I think I should take him home.”

“Don’t worry,” the stupid man says, smiling, “Rose does the same thing from time to time. They just don’t know when to stop, eh?”

Arthur looks across at ‘Rose’, and she gives him a tight lipped smile of sympathy. Arthur waves to her and gets up, walking across to her sofa with dignity. 

“I’m Arthur,” Arthur says, quietly, “why’d you marry that arse?”

“Why did you marry yours?”

“I didn’t. He’s my boyfriend. And he’s nicer than this,” Arthur says, looking miserably at Merlin where he’s buttering up the stupid man, “he’s ‘networking’.”

“Yes, that’s why Ambrose invited him. He doesn’t approve of ‘the gay thing’, as he calls it. Thus why you have, for all intents and purposes, become a woman.”

“In tents,” Arthur says, sniggering. “Sorry. Friend of mine- or ours, actually. That’s real, anyhow. Um, yeah. Used to make a joke about intents being the same as in… tents. Like… camping. Never mind. I never really got the joke, anyway.”

Rose smiles at him, and Arthur likes her smile. 

“I married him because we were dating, and he was charming, and my father doesn’t approve of divorce. I work full time, he works. Our schedules don’t match, and we have separate bedrooms. It works for us, usually.”

Arthur nods. He understands marriages like that. Those are the kinds of marriages he knows. He’s feeling quite drunk, and quite sad, and he likes Rose, so he curls up against the back of the sofa and drifts. Merlin comes along eventually and scrapes him up, carting him back to Merlin’s bed and Merlin’s warm body again. 

“I didn’t like those people,” Arthur tells him. 

“I know.”

“You owe me so much for all this.”

“I know.”

“Apparently gay people are unhygenic.”

“I know.”

Arthur realises Merlin’s probably had as awful a time as he has. He gets himself up on one elbow, kisses Merlin messily, and passes out. 

He doesn’t remember the kiss, and Merlin says nothing. 

“So,” Lance says, four weeks later. 

They’re both using the main table, out in the studio. Lance has book spreads all around him, a pile of sticky notes waiting. Arthur’s supposed to be working on the new project brief, but he’s actually building a little village out of card. He’s working on a car, cutting out tiny little wheels. 

“So?” he says. 

No one else is in, everyone off with the flu or taking advantage of the company flu epidemic to skive off. 

“Merlin,” Lance prompts.

“Yeah?” 

“Is it going well?”

“Are we gossiping? Or are you, my friend, asking me about how my life is?” Arthur asks. 

“Wow. Bitter.”

“I’m fed up. Who new dating Merlin was an invitation for people to ask me about my love life? I’m a private person. I’ve taken pains to establish that I am a private person. One of the lads from the admin team thought it would be okay to ask me advice on coming out to his Mum this morning!”

“That’s… nice?”

“No it’s not.”

“I’m asking as your friend, Arthur. I know office gossip isn’t your cup of tea, and I know people have been talking about you guys a lot. I know it must be putting a strain on things.”

Arthur thinks about it. It’s true. He hasn’t had a proper conversation with Merlin for week. They’ve been so busy pretending, they’ve forgotten their friendship. He misses just sitting. Misses Merlin actually knowing him, knowing he doesn’t want to go to dinner parties, or to the cinema. He just wants quiet nights, wants to talk about books with Elyan, talk left wing politics with Gwaine. He wants Merlin quietly getting him a cup of tea, or paracetamol for a headache. The old things. He nods.

“It’s strange,” he says, “I miss him. Even though he’s around more.”

“Yeah. I remember people finding out about me and Gwen. For a while, we were in the spotlight, and she liked that. I didn’t.”

“I don’t. What did you do?”

“Do you… do you want to know what we did? Or do you want my advice?” Lance says, very seriously. 

“Advice, I guess.”

“Then, I advise you to stop pretending. Tell Merlin you’re not up for it anymore. He shouldn’t have asked you to begin with.”

“No. Wait, what? You knew?”

“I’m not stupid. Also, Elyan has a big mouth.”

Arthur changes the conversation, and Lance goes with it. Arthur uses his model village for a spread explaining model making in cinema. 

It happens on the Friday. Arthur has the flu, but he’s in the office anyway, answering Godwin’s questions about why the project is behind and over budget (because it was, as Arthur had pointed out at the time, put in on a schedule and budget that was impossible, but try telling Godwin that when his precious head of department had okay-ed things). 

“I have the emails, sir, with my estimations about how long the team would take,” Arthur says. 

He opens the file and shows Godwin all of it. It’s enough for Godwin to frown, which is a good sign. 

“I need to speak with Edwin about this,” Godwin says, after looking over the emails. “I know you’re ill, but stick around, please. I may need you later.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur goes to the studio, planning on napping on the sofa they have, but Gwaine’s in there and Gwaine’s been the worst about the ‘Merthur thing’ as Elyan calls it. Arthur goes to Merlin’s office, instead. Merlin has a sofa, too.

“Hey, why aren’t you at home?” Merlin says. 

“Aw,” Vivian says, coming in from the outer office to deliver paperwork, “you two are so cute.”

“We’re not,” Arthur says.

Merlin, though, takes the opportunity to flaunt their ‘relationship’. He calls Arthur ‘honey’ and strokes his hair and offers to make Lemsip. Vivian coos some more and then leaves, and Merlin’s hands drop away, Merlin going back to his computer. 

“What,” Arthur says, sourly, “now there’s no audience, I don’t exist? I’m not your friend?”

His voice gets louder, and he starts to cough, curling in on himself. It unsettles his stomach and for a minute he thinks he’s going to throw up on Merlin’s ugly carpet. 

“Hey,” Merlin says, softer than the first time, coming back to sit beside him, “what? What was that about?”

“You’re just… faking it all. It’s… why? What’s the matter with you?” Arthur says, helpless, “just pretending. Do you care? You used to be.. and now you’re… I miss you.”

Merlin looks startled, then contemplative. He strokes Arthur’s hair again, and this time it’s not a show. He lingers on the spots Arthur likes. 

“I’ll get you some tea,” Merlin says. “In a bit. Are you unhappy? Dating me?”

“Fake dating.”

“Would you…. if it were real, would you still be unhappy?”

“I don’t- I don’t know.”

“I like pretending, with you.”

“I don’t. You’re awful. I don’t like boyfriend!you.”

“You don’t? I thought I was doing it quite well.”

“Yeah, but you!you wouldn’t do it quite well. You’d forget everything, and leave your keys places and crash at mine, and get too drunk, and forget we’re at work and kiss me absently goodbye. You’d laugh at the fools who host dinner parties, and laugh uproariously if you spilt red wine on me. You’d mock me for spending that much on a suit. You wouldn’t take me to horror films. Or if you did you’d make fun of it until I laughed. You’d be you, instead of some… cut out from a movie.”

Merlin rubs his knuckles against Arthur’s scalp and sighs. 

“I’d like to be that with you,” he says, eventually, not looking at Arthur.

“Oh.”

“If I ask, will you say yes?”

“Yes,” Arthur says. 

“Will you real date me? Go out with me on Friday.”

“I should say no, just to make it exactly like Buffy. But we don’t want it to be exactly like Buffy. Oz leaves.”

“Not exactly like Buffy, then.”

“Oh, but you can be Tara, instead! Oh, no. She dies.”

“I’m not dying,” Merlin says, quickly, heading off Arthur’s feverish tears. 

Arthur sighs and smiles. That’s Merlin. Arthur presses his forehead into Merlin’s thigh. 

“Yeah, I’ll go out with you on Friday. If I’m not puking up my guts, still. Which I’m about to do.”

Merlin dives for the wastepaper basket, just in time. Arthur heaves everything up and then flops around, his back to the room, Merlin’s arm over his shoulders, his hand pressed right to Arthur’s heart. Arthur holds on, and falls asleep. 

(He dreams that Godwin tries to promote him to Edwin’s position, that he turns it down, and that Gwaine gets the job instead. It must be a dream. Gwaine’s too awful to be a boss.)


	2. The Victorians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victorian England. Or Manchester, anyway. A big love affair. Or a little one, tucked away in a flat. Not quiet secret.

Merlin checks the paper in his hand four times before knocking. The rooms, while in one of the ‘good’ parts of town and not being slum-like, are not half as smart as he expected. The outside is a tall, imposing building, but it’s old, and from the scribbled ‘13c’ Merlin guesses inside it’s a boarding house. He lifts the heavy knocker, though, and gives it a bang. It fits the writing, if not his expectations. 

The woman who eventually comes to the door is clearly the landlady. If her expression hadn’t given her away, the sour-grapes of landladies everywhere, her muttered ‘not a bleeding servant, if they’re expecting guests they might at least answer the blooming door’ gives it away. 

“What?” She asks, sniffing and wiping her nose on the sleeve of her dress. 

It doesn’t do the dress any harm- limp, grey, possibly once some kind of colour, the thing hangs in un-flattering folds from above the bosom. The woman is un-corsetted, which makes Merlin smile. 

“My apologies, and they are most profuse,” Merlin begins, bowing deeply, “I am here to call upon a friend. He’s not expecting me, and I fear I have put you to a lot of trouble, and it is possible that it has all been for naught.”

“Well who you here to see?” she asks, chin coming up. 

Her eyes are brighter than Merlin expected, sharper. Amused, if he’s not mistaken. Merlin straightens and tries the smile Gaius termed ‘idiotic’. It gets him nowhere. 

“Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin says, giving it up.

“Up you go, then. He’s definitely in, been banging on that awful piano all afternoon. Tell him he’s not getting his dinner tonight, as it’s Thursday and I never do dinners on Thursdays. Head full of air, he’s got.”

“Yes ma’am,” Merlin says, “quite.”

She just gives him an expectant look, so Merlin jogs up the stairs, checking the numbers on the doors. ‘C’ is right at the top, the copper letter hanging slanted, a note tacked up underneath that says ‘do not disturb, or I will defenestrate you’. Merlin snorts and tries the door. Finding it open, he enters. 

The room on the other side is large, ending in big windows. There’s a fire lit, and a gas lamp. The room is tidy and neat, which Merlin guesses is not due to Arthur, and there are two large arm chairs, a sofa, a small dining table, and, in the corner by the window facing the room, an upright piano.

“How in heaven’s name did you drag that thing up all those stairs?” Merlin asks Arthur, who is sat at the piano. 

Arthur starts, looking up, and Merlin grins wider and wider. Arthur’s hair is fussed up every which way, his eyes are squinting from looking at the music so long, and his expression is one of mild surprise, and less mild irritation. Both clear when he sees Merlin, giving way to joy. 

Arthur leaps up from the piano stool and is across the room in three strides, sweeping Merlin up into his arms, cold nose in Merlin’s neck, lips pressing kisses to his cheek and ear and into his hair. 

“Mr. Pendragon!” Merlin says, laughing, and then, “Arthur! I left the door open, you ninny! Stop!”

Arthur doesn’t stop. Instead, he lifts Merlin off his feet with a grunt and staggers them in the door, making it swing closed with a crash. Merlin, pressed up against the door, hat still clutched in his left hand, laughs. He holds Arthur’s shoulder, thumb pressing into Arthur’s soft shirt, and lets his head fall back to get a look at Arthur. Another look. 

“I just want to look at you,” Merlin says, letting go of his hat in favour of cupping Arthur’s face, “two years is too long. Two years! My God, I thought I’d die waiting for you to write.”

“Extracting one’s self from one’s father takes time. It does if you want to avoid being cut off, anyway,” Arthur says. “Imagine what he’d think if he knew I was coming to Manchester for you! No, I had to finish at Oxford, do my year in the family business in London.”

“What have you told him? About coming here, I mean?”

“That Leon Knightly and I are going into the factory business. I told him we’re making ladies’ stockings.”

“Why on earth?” Merlin asks, laughing. 

“Why on earth all this talking? I was wondering the same. Your letters said you were well? Hunith is well? That’s still true?”

“Yes, and yes. And Will is well, also.”

“Him I wasn’t curious about. That is enough, for now. Come on, kiss me.”

Merlin stops, just breathing, holding Arthur’s face. Kiss me Arthur says, as if it’s nothing. Merlin thinks of God and Gaius and his father, his mother, his soul, his priest. And then he puts it all aside and kisses Arthur. Kisses him and kisses him until they’re breathless. 

“Elena Godwin wanted to marry me,” Arthur says, between kisses, guiding Merlin to the couch, “I said no. I thought my father would murder me then and there, but he decided I was right. Apparently I am far too juvenile to marry. Morgana loved that.”

Merlin laughs, nuzzling into Arthur’s shoulder, his skin warm under his clothes, his scent familiar. Less sweaty than two years ago, though Arthur’s no less muscular. Merlin draws back to make certain, feels along Arthur’s arms and shoulders and back. 

“You’re stronger,” Merlin says. 

“Perhaps. I had to really get into the garment business, my father’s not going to fall for something that’s a lie. I’ve been learning from the bottom up, while Leon scounts out options.”

“You’re a factory hand?” Merlin says, laughing harder. 

“Stop! I’m very good at it.”

“I’m sure you are,” Merlin soothes, pressing his thumb to Arthur’s pout.

That hasn’t changed. Arthur the spoilt school boy, lounging in the grass, complaining about the state of Leon’s kitchen. 

“I’m so glad you insulted my mother’s cooking,” Merlin says, replacing his thumb with his lips.

“Mm. So am I,” Arthur says, “very much so. You were splendid defending her.”

“Yes, I was.”

Arthur laughs, softly this time, gently. 

“Leon’s taken up with a man by the name of Elyan,” Arthur says. “His father made a name for himself in London, making jewellery on commission. He made an imitation of the collar necklace from the coronation portrait of Elizabeth the first. He’s famous for being the jeweller who worked closest to the Romans. William Morris is a fan.”

Merlin draws back again, in order to give Arthur a suspicious look. Arthur, if he’s still the same man as he was two years ago (and his letters suggest this is so), rattles off facts when he’s about to say something Merlin’s not going to agree with.

“And?” Merlin prompts, when Arthur stays silent.

“We’re going to a seance with them this evening,” Arthur says, very fast, all in one breath, and immediately steals Merlin’s mouth for kissing. 

“A seance?” Merlin says, against Arthur’s lips, “no way. I refuse.”

“Can’t.”

“I was planning on staying,” Merlin says, stroking Arthur’s chest, then wriggling his hand up underneath Arthur’s shirt, “staying here with you. All evening. Curled up by the fire. Letting you have me all to yourself. Just us.”

Arthur grumbles, wordlessly mumbling complaints into Merlin’s collar bone. 

“I suppose,” Merlin says, drawing out the words, “I might stay here alone. Wait for you and the boys to get back. Drink wine alone. Lick wine off my own lips.”

Merlin licks his lips, as if already tasting the thick, sweet, red that Arthur favours. Arthur moans and tips his head back, away from Merlin, then gives him a baleful look. 

“I will write a note to Leon,” Arthur says, sighing. “Elyan’s sister wanted an escort for herself and two friends. They wanted extra men who would not take advantage of young, impressionable women. I came to mind, for some reason.”

Merlin laughs, stroking Arthur’s cheek. He’s had a shave recently, Merlin can tell, though there’s stubble growing in. 

“Do they know? Leon and Elyan? About your loving me?” Merlin asks. 

“No. Not in so many words. They know that I am likely to remain a bachelor, and they know that I have a very close friend. And Leon, of course, knows about Oxford and Eton.”

“Tell me more about Oxford and Eton. Did Leon feature, at Oxford and Eton?”

“No, but Gwaine did,” Arthur teases, eyes bright, smile mischievous. 

Merlin can’t help reacting, startled, and his face twists. Arthur laughs heartily and Merlin hits out at him. They wrestle one another to the rug before the fire and Merlin ends up on top, sitting in the cradle of Arthur’s hips, leaning down to kiss and kiss. 

“Just like a boy,” Arthur says, “still so like I remember. Are you always so happy, Merlin?”

“No. Just with you.”

“I shall never leave you, then. You will always be happy, like this. Always smiling.”

“I cannot smile forever. Sometimes, I remember my position in life. I remember my childhood, I remember being hungry and tired. I remember being beaten by your father for learning to read.”

Arthur’s face clouds over, and Merlin regrets his words. He said them thoughtlessly, automatically. He’s used to writing, with Arthur. Used to trying to temper Arthur’s effusive Romanticism, temper his own hopes by dulling Arthur’s. He strokes Arthur’s cheek, leaning in again to claim a kiss. 

“I will be happy, with you,” Merlin says, “I am happy. The Knightlys’ are kinder to my mother, and no one can beat my learning from me. I like my work, and my friends are true and loyal. I shall tell Gwaine you have been spreading slander about him.”

“Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love,” Arthur says, fervently, catching Merlin up in his arms and rolling them until they’re curled, tangled together, Arthur’s lips kissing Merlin’s shoulder and neck.

“Are you quoting things?” Merlin asks. 

“No. Definitely not.”

“Did you really… Oxford and Eton with Gwaine?” Merlin whispers. 

Arthur looks up at him, right into his eyes, then presses himself close so his lips are right by Merlin’s ear. 

“Shall I tell you about it?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, “and who else? Who else did you Eton at Oxford?”

Arthur laughs, breath hot and short, and starts in on the stories. 

They forget to write to Leon and Leon may not have been certain about Arthur’s proclivities before, but he certainly is after calling for Arthur. He also knows about Merlin’s proclivities. And over hears a fair bit about Gwaine’s proclivities. And Lord Egerton. It’s a very good evening. Though not particularly for Leon.


	3. Dystopia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur/Elyan for this one. Oxford is not quite as they'd imagine. They've come a long way and they have a long way to go, and they both carry things with them that aren't necesarilly physical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a dystopian universe, so there are hints at some darkness. Though this is mostly fluff. 
> 
> WARNING: child's death spoken of.

Arthur lowers himself gingerly down to the floor, propping himself against the cold stone wall. He stretches his bad leg out in front of him, his hip protesting. He shifts and settles, as comfortable as he’s going to get.

“Three hours to sunset,” he tells Elyan. “I got as much wood as I could carry in the sling. There’s plenty, though. Oxford’s a dump, but it’s green.”

Elyan looks up from the heavy book he’s got propped open on his knees. It’s one of the hunks of tech, grey and solid. Completely Green, of course, but probably made by some poor kid stuck in the fuck-end-of-fuckwhere, in America. Arthur saw those kids, washing ashore in Kent on the last tidal wave. Trying to escape, wet and dirty and dead. All eyes and bone. 

“First place to go no cars,” Elyan says, “nothing with a carbon output, in all of Oxfordshire. I’ve been reading up.”

“You always do.”

“Where’s Merlin?”

“Hunting,” Arthur says, grinning. 

Merlin hates hunting, but he’s bloody good at it. So quick, with reflexes Arthur envies . 

“Is he sharing our fire?”

“No.”

Elyan asks every night, and every night Arthur says no. It’s a ritual of sorts.

“It was also the home of the world’s best university,” Elyan says. “They found actual paper records.”

Arthur snorts. 

“This shit hole? They don’t even have level 4 schule*!”

“I know,” Elyan says, mildly, putting his book away. “Do you want anything? I’m going to look for water.”

“Take the knife,” Arthur says, trying to press it into Elyan’s hand. 

Elyan backs away, turns sharply, and leaves. Without the knife. He won’t touch the, not since Bristol. Merlin comes over, a hirsch** over his shoulders.

“Venison,” Arthur says. “Again? Were there no rabbits?”

“Arthur! We can’t eat rabbit! The Mutter owns them all and we might be-” Merlin stops, narrowing his eyes. “When did you have rabbit? Why do you suddenly have a taste for it?”

“It was dead when we found it, don’t panic. Besides, my father made all the right applications and things. We just ate it a little before being told we could. If we waited for the certificate, it’d have gone bad. It was years ago.”

Merlin narrows his eyes, but accepts the story. It’s the truth, really. The second time he ate rabbit need not be mentioned. Merlin plops himself down next to Arthur’s load of wood, crouching over his kill, and sets to work skinning it. 

“We’re walking to Carterton tomorrow,” Merlin says.”There’s supposed to be a man there. It’s got a Tescos!”

“They also have a market, and proper plumbing, and a kunst*** museum. Quite civilised.”

“You know about it?”

“Elyan,” Arthur says. 

Elyan and his books and his determination to learn everything he can. Elyan who went off without the knife. Arthur looks anxiously around. Elena and Mithian are coming back from hunting, too, each carrying a hirsch. Cedric’s trying to wheedle his way into each group, one by one, unable or unwilling to light his own fire. Leon’s got three kids climbing all over him. 

“He’s over there,” Merlin says, pointing the other way. 

Arthur turns his head, and spots Elyan coming back with a big bowl of water. His mouth suddenly feels incredibly dry. Elyan lets him drink, first, but Arthur’s careful only to take a bit. Elyan can go get more, but he’ll go without the knife again. 

“Drink what you need,” Elyan says, “please. I’ll go with someone else, next time.”

Arthur drinks more, gulping down the cool liquid. 

“Is it clean?” Merlin asks. 

Elyan shrugs, but Arthur knows it’s clean enough, or Elyan wouldn’t let him drink so much. Elyan’s careful. 

“I’m going to grab a few people,” Merlin says, “see what we can do about bringing a good supply of water in. Re-stock our supplies.”

Arthur watches him, watches other people’s ears prick up as Merlin moves among them, eager to help. 

“I’m so glad he decided to join us,” Arthur says, “I hated being in charge. He’s much better at it.”

Elyan sits down, closer to Arthur. Shoulder to shoulder. Arthur leans into him, sighing. 

“It’s going to be cold tonight,” Elyan says. 

“’S’okay, leg already hurts. We’re walking tomorrow, apparently.”

“Are you up for that?”

Arthur shrugs. His leg’ll do it. Might hurt. 

“We’ll stay, in Carterton. At least a couple of days. Merlin wants to find someone.”

“Never takes him as long as I hope. You need to rest.”

“So does everyone else, I’m not an invalid.”

Elyan pushes Arthur upright, then leans forwards, over Arthur, to massage the sore muscle in Arthur’s left thigh. Arthur leans on Elyan’s back, resting his head on Elyan’s shoulder. 

“You’re warm,” Arthur says, “how?”

“I don’t know. Sundown is going to be early, you know. I just realised. Oxford’s green, but the smog’s thicker.”

“I thought it went carbon free early? Doesn’t that mean less smog?”

“Thicker than at home, love. Not thicker than in London.”

Arthur thinks of Camelot. They had to leave, he knows that, but he loved that house. He built that house. He loved Kent, too. They had to leave, though. There was no hope. Everyone needs hope. 

Sundown does come early. Fires go up one by one as the sun vanishes. Arthur lets Elyan light theirs. Arthur tried, once, but he’s useless with it. He seasons and cooks the meat, though. The way Gwen taught him. 

“I wonder how Gwen is,” he says, later, lying between Elyan and the fire. 

“She’ll be planning her lessons for tomorrow,” Elyan says, sounding wistful, “tucked up in the house. The livingroom fire lit.”

“We had to go,” Arthur says. 

“I know. I wish she’d have come.”

“She had to stay.”

Elyan doesn’t answer, he just turns onto his side and tucks himself around Arthur, holding him for comfort. Arthur thumbs over Elyan’s hand. There’s a low moan from a few fires over.

“Bloody hell, not again,” Arthur says. “Does Gwaine never get tired? Or bored?”

“I don’t think people get bored of sex, love.”

“Really?”

“Nope.”

“I do. And I get bored of hearing Gwaine, bloody hell!” Gwaine has let out a louder grunt, and there’s fleshy sounds. Elyan giggles, “Ace people in the room!” Arthur yells. “Ace people, not enjoying the sex!”

“Shut up!” Mithian yells back. “I’m enjoying the sex!”

“I think my boner just dies,” Gwaine grumbles. 

Arthur smiles and snuggles back into Elyan’s arms. That’s much better. Elyan smothers his laughter in Arthur’s neck. 

Arthur wakes early, before sun-up. He wakes because it’s cold. He wakes because it’s so cold his breath is freezing on his lips as it condenses in the air. He wakes because his leg is shooting hot, sharp pain up and down him. The usual ache is gone, and in it’s place is fire and pain. Arthur can hear a long, low moaning and he’s pretty sure it’s him.

“Shh,” Elyan says. Elyan’s awake, too. “Hang on. Let me…”

There’s warmth under Arthur’s knee. Arthur moans and turns his head away, clutching at his leg, breath stuttering. He’s so cold. His bones feel like they’re shrinking. 

“Hello, darling,” Gwaine says. 

Arthur wants to tell him to go back to his own fire, go back to Percy. But Gwaine’s draping himself over Arthur instead. Arthur rolls away, but Elyan’s on the other side. 

“Shh,” Elyan says, again. “He’s warm, and he was awake.”

Arthur growls, but it turns into another groan. He’s shivering all over. Somehow, though, it starts to fade. He identifies the lump under his knee as the thick pan Merlin uses, and a stone, wrapped in a blanket. It’s hot, spreading into his sore muscles. Gwaine’s hot, too, Elyan’s right. The two bodies are holding him still, and warming him up. He turns his head to Elyan, finding a shoulder and burrowing in. 

Elyan’s arm slides under Arthur’s neck and cradles his head in close. Arthur shivers and shivers, even as he steadily warms. The pain slows, but stops subsiding, sitting in a tight knot in Arthur’s thigh. Elyan starts to sing. It’s German, Arthur realises. Something stupid and old about global warming and saving the planet. 

“Who knew it’d end up killing it,” Arthur whispers. 

“No one could have known, love.”

“So you always say. You read your books, do your archeology. My father had other ideas, and he was politisch****. He said people knew, the just didn’t care. It was a cheap energy source they could make lots of money out of. Fat lot of good it did them.”

“I try to think positively,” Elyan says. 

“I’m so cold.”

“I know.”

Elyan moves closer, spreading himself over Arthur, like Gwaine. Arthur tucks his hands in between their bodies, presses his face into Elyan’s clothes, and just breathes. He falls asleep with Elyan singing again, in French this time, something Arthur’s sure Elyan’s mother used to sing. 

When he wakes again, it’s Elyan who’s cold. Arthur knows from the way Elyan’s holding himself stiff. He’s trying not to shiver, not to wake Arthur. Gwaine’s still there, but he’s gone lax and sprawled, almost in the fire. Arthur shifts cautiously, and when his leg doesn’t protest, he moves more. He pretends to still be a asleep. 

Gradually, sneakily, he moves until he’s holding Elyan in his arms, holding him close, cradling him. Elyan snorts. 

“I know you’re awake.”

“You’re cold.”

Elyan doesn’t deny it. Arthur curls around him, tucking Elyan’s head under his chin. Elyan’s hair has gone curly in the cold air, damp from the condensation their warm breath makes around them. Arthur likes it this way- it’s soft, and reminds Arthur of Elyan as a little boy. He’d sung then, too. Light and uncaring, his voice beautiful. It’s richer, now. Deep and pleasant. Arthur hums in contentment as Elyan relaxes.

“I’d sing, but I’m not as good as you,” Arthur says.

“It’s fine,” Elyan assures, quickly. 

Arthur laughs. Elyan once told him he sings like a frog with a headache, whatever that means. Arthur can hear the frog, actually. Out in the garden. 

“Do you think,” Arthur says, “when it was a university, do you think they were like this? Like us? Remember at the schule, lying in each other’s arms.”

“I remember.”

“Then you left.”

“I had to work.”

“I know. I just, I missed you. Missed your arms. Everyone else was discovering sex.”

“I’m glad you never discovered it.”

“So am I! It’s so sticky and gross.”

Elyan laughs, breath puffing against Arthur’s collar bone. He’s warming up in Arthur’s arms. His skin is so brown, these days, from the sun. Arthur wraps his hand around the bare back of Elyan’s neck, admiring the darkness against his own pale skin. 

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur says, quietly. “I love you.”

“And I you.”

They fall asleep again, and Arthur sleeps so soundly. 

 

*school

**deer

***art

****political


	4. Bedsharing Spies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwaine/Percival, this chapter. 
> 
> Gwaine is given a name, and that's it. He's got to find this 'Percival' before Morgana slips through his fingers, or Arthur will be Having Words.

“Find this man.”

Gwaine tries to catch hold of Morgana, keep her there, but she’s already melted into the crowd. He keeps his hands in his pocket and carries on examining the shop tailor’s dummy in the shop window, fingering the slip of paper Morgana left. He sighs and wanders into the shop to buy something and excuse his window gazing.

“She didn’t stop long enough for me to make the offer, Arthur!” Gwaine yells, later that evening, into his phone.

“You should have made her. That’s your job, Green.”

“Yeah well she reverse-pick-pocketed me, hissed at me, and was gone. I didn’t have time to so much as open my mouth. Shall I come in?”

“No. Stay there and do you damn job.”

Arthur hangs up. Gwaine drops his phone on the bed and flops backwards with a groan. He hates Spain. The only thing he hates more than Spain in general is Madrid specifically. Not only is it far too hot, but his mattress is thin and plastic-covered under the sheet, the room is tiny, breakfast consist of bad coffee and stale cereal, and his Spanish is more Catalan than Madrid so he keeps getting looks.

Gwaine pulls the bit of paper out of his pocket and reads ‘Percival’. He snorts and scrunches it up. How is he meant to find a man from a single, presumably made up, name? He gets off the bed and goes out, walking back to the drop he and Morgana agreed on. He leaves her an invitation to another meet the next day, then goes to dinner, then goes to sleep.

Morgana doesn’t turn up at the meet. When Gwaine checks the drop, he finds a bit of paper with ‘Percival’ on it, and a box with a knife in it.

“She’s taunting you,” Merlin says, his face bouncing around as he wanders about the office carrying his laptop, “that’s a knife Arthur gave her as a gift. Basically, we find this Percival or she’s not playing. Has she given you anything else?”

“Just the name,” Gwaine says.

“I’ll see what I can come up with.”

Merlin signs off and Gwaine’s left with nothing to do but wait. He uses the time to sit at the tiny desk in his tiny, stifling, un-airconditioned room, and sweat. He also reads some more of the doorstep-thick Morgana file. He’s read all the important bits before, and he went over everything before he set up a drop with her. There are small files, though, that he hasn’t bothered with so far. Reports from agents who met her, or faught her. A shopping list in her handwriting. A thick pack of photographs of her and Merlin on holiday when they were teenagers.

“He’s a computer hacker,” Merlin says, when Gwaine answers the phone three hours later.

“Hello,” Gwaine says, “how are you? I’m fine. Nice to hear from you. About that matter from earlier.”

“Yeah yeah. He’s a hacker. Percival is his actual name, surprisingly enough. His handle is, hillariously, ‘the sleeveless knight’. He was behind Berlin, three weeks ago. He’s also the man who took credit for our little problem last month.”

“Do we have a file on him?”

“One’s been started. Mostly it’s just a list of things he might have done along with various online testimonies about him.”

“Can I find him?”

“No idea. I’ve sent you the link to a chat room some of our techs have been hanging around in. Elena thinks she’s been talking to him, so you’re going to sign on as ‘Unicornwhispers59′ and see if you can engage him.”

Gwaine is good at engaging people. He cracks his knuckles and tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder, preparing to take notes.

It takes them a week to find and engage Percival. Then three more days while they negotiate a meet. Then six hours and one change to get to Gothenburg. Gwaine uses the flight time to brush up his Swedish.

He takes a taxi from the airport to the café Merlin named. Elyan’s waiting for him there, reading a Göteborgs-Posten dated the eight of July twenty fifteen. Gwaine sits and orders a cup of coffee and a slice of lemon cake. Elyan folds up the paper.

“Arthur wants more paperwork filed,” Elyan says.

“Arthur can shove his fingers up his arse and whistle.”

Elyan grins at him and shrugs, then pulls out his wallet. He puts money on the table and Gwaine collects his coffee and cake, and they leave. Elyan’s got a taxi, license showing Elyan’s face hairy as a bear, a woolly hat pulled over his ears. Elyan pulls on a similar hat and starts the engine.

“I’m dropping you at the Abyss Kville hostel, North of the river. He’ll probably take you somewhere else. I’ll try to follow, but can’t make any promises. We’ll set three meet times. Tonight at eight, at Bukowski’s market, twelve thirty at Ölstugan Tullen Kville, the bar, or tomorrow at ten am in Macdonals on Motorgatan.”

“Eight, twelve thirty, ten. Got it.”

“You’ve got a map in your packet,” Elyan says, “everything’s marked on it.”

Gwaine flips to the back of the file, past the blank passports (one Norwegian, one Swiss), the ID card marking him as a student of the University of Gothenburg, and checks the map, then shoves the whole thing into his bag. Elyan pulls up in front of the hostel and passes an envelope over.

“Money,” he explains. “If you need to bribe Percival, there’s a bank card in the file. You went over what you’re authorised to give him, other than money?”

“I read the notes,” Gwaine grumbles, “Merlin’s thorough.”

Elyan gives him another grin, then Gwaine extracts himself from the taxi and promptly slips over on a patch of ice. He ignores Elyan’s amusement and carefully makes his way inside.

It’s warm inside and Gwaine straightens, looking around. There are frames with pictures of the city on the walls, a big wooden desk, a three foot partition and places to sit and wait. There’s a plant in the corner, with dust on the leaves. Flowers on the desk that look worse for wear. Gwaine heads for the desk, leans on it, and pulls out Elyan’s paper from earlier.

A man rises from one of the seats, unfolding himself to a good six plus feet of him. He’s heavy with muscle, with short hair and a wife-beater. Gwaine slouches further into the desk.

“Good evening,” Percival says, “do you speak English?”

Gwaine nods. Percival looks around.

“Come on, then,” Percival says, jerking his head.

Gwaine follows him. They walk through the hostel and out through the kitchen. Percival gets into a car and Gwaine hesitates. Elyan’s taxi’s in sight, though, so Gwaine notes the license plate and then gets in.

“How many people did we see in the hostel?” Percival asks.

“There was a man sitting in the corner of the reception, and we passed a woman going through the staff door,” Gwaine says, “the man was approximately five foot six, wearing a business suit. The woman was slightly overweight, brown hair, stocky. Looked flustered.”

Percival’s silent for five minutes. Gwaine memorises their route, automatically. They’re moving away from the centre of town, away from the river. Percival seems to know where they’re going.

“Is the taxi following us your lot?” Percival asks.

Gwaine remains silent.

“Either it’s your lot,” Percival says, “or I need to deal with it.”

“It’s mine,” Gwaine admits.

Percival loses Elyan at the next traffic light. They drive for two hours, then Percival pulls up at a block of flats. Percival leads Gwaine upstairs and into a small, open plan space. There are two doors, presumably a bedroom and bathroom, off a large livingroom. Gwaine automatically charts the number of stairs up (thirty three), the number of other flats (eight), and the security (one yale lock and a bolt inside the door). There are three exits- the door, the window, and the fire escape Gwaine noticed on the outside.

“Where are we?” he asks, sitting on the sofa and making himself comfortable.

“Strömstad. I’ll take you back to Gothenburg, don’t worry. Coffee?”

“I’d love a cup of tea. Mind if I record this? Protocol, you know.”

“Go ahead.”

Gwaine gets out the recorder and mic. He has various ways to record people, but he finds this obvious one works best in these situations. He sets it out on the coffee table, then starts when a cat comes out of the bedroom.

“Do you live here?” Gwaine asks, scooping up the fluff-ball and petting it until it purrs.

“No. A friend. Milk?”

“God, no. Philistine. Don’t even suggest sugar.”

Percival laughs and comes over with two mugs. He scritches the cat behind the ears, then sits in the arm chair, sipping his drink, observing Gwaine.

“What do you want from me?” Percival asks, eventually.

“Not a lot. A favour.”

“And what will I get in return?”

“A job offer.”

It takes Gwaine two hours to come to an agreement with Percival. By that time, he’s made himself quite at home. Percival agrees to work for the British Government in return for certain actions being wiped from his record, and Gwaine sets about de-briefing him.

The de-briefing quite quickly falls apart. Percival answers most questions with ‘I don’t know’, ‘that wasn’t me’, or ‘I won’t tell you that’. Gwaine perseveres. He follows protocol and goes through the pages and pages of question, but when Percival does answer, he’s so interesting, Gwaine keeps going off on tangents. Like:

“Wait, you were where for this?” (Gwaine)

“Uh, sorry. It’s a tiny village in Colombia.” (Percival)

“I know it, I was just surprised you did. What were you doing in Colombia?” (Gwaine)

“I had a friend there. I was couch surfing, travelling. Told my family I was tryin’ to learn Spanish. What about you?” (Percival)

“I was learning Spanish.” (Gwaine)

By the time Gwaine checks his watch, they’ve been talking for five hours and it’s after ten. He swears and switches off the recorder, gathering his things in a hurry.

“Are you done, then?” Percival asks, calmly, gathering the collection of cups plates, and bowls they’ve accumulated.

“No, but I have to be back in Gothenburg.”

“Won’t get back till tomorrow, now. I’m not driving this late.”

Gwaine swears again, in Russian, just for variety, and sits back on the sofa. Percival clears up calmly around him.

“I have to be back by nine thirty, tomorrow,” Gwaine says, giving himself time to get breakfast, knowing Elyan never stops for food.

“That’s fine. There’s only one bed. Unless you want to sleep on that sofa, we’ll have to share.”

Gwaine shrugs. He’s slept with worse people. He’s also slept with people for less, so if Percival wants to do that, that’s fine, too. Gwaine puts his feet up and relaxes.

“You said, at the beginning, that you needed me to do something.”

“Yes. I need to record this conversation,” Gwaine says, flicking his cuffs out of his shirt and activating the cuff-link. “Do you agree to being recorded?”

“Yes.”

Gwaine records their names and the time, then pauses. He’s not sure what Morgana wants exactly, anything left at the drop went unanswered. He assumes she wants him to bring Percival to a meet. Leon’s in Madrid now setting a meet up, so he’ll probably know by tomorrow.

“We are trying to turn someone,” Gwaine says, carefully, “and they have asked us to find you. Once we identified you and found out your particular skill set, we decided to recruit you, as well. I’ve gone over the usual debriefing, so you now technically work for us. You’ll get pulled in to a training centre at some point, and be given a lot of things to sign, but for now, you go on as if you’re you. Easy enough.”

“Who wanted me found?” Percival asks, cutting through the bullshit.

“Morgana,” Gwaine says, grimacing, “Morgana Pendragon.”

“Bugger. She probably wants me shot.”

“Really? How interesting. What did you do to make Morgana want you dead?”

“I didn’t say dead, I said shot. There’s a difference.”

“True.”

“We have a… working history. She hired me for a series of jobs, I worked out how they connected and what she was doing and I backed out. I’m pretty good at hiding, she hasn’t found me yet. Or hadn’t?”

“Hasn’t. Her wanting you dead changes things. Huh, that’s good. Means it’s probably not gonna be my problem anymore. Perfect,” Gwaine says, grinning and rubbing his hands together.

“You remember you’re recording this,” Percival says, amused.

Gwaine flicks his cuff to turn it off.

“Any chance of dinner?”

“That’s it?”

“I know Morgana. You back out of a job, she wants something from you we’re not going to give her, you’re no use to us as a bargaining chip. Therefore; my job is done. Which means, time for food.”

Percival laughs. To Gwaine’s surprise, he cooks then a whole meal- vegetables and salad and everything. He lays the table, too. He doesn’t talk much, and Gwaine takes his cue and stays quiet, also. It’s not really his thing, though, and over dinner he gives in and makes conversation.

He’s surprised at how easy it is to make Percival laugh. How easy it is to listen when Percival talks about his friends. Never named, but outlined and filled in with stories. How easy it is to tell Percival that he doesn’t actually have a home, really. To tell Percival about Dublin in the rain in nineteen ninety nine, the last moment of feeling home.

“Well,” Percival says, getting up from the table (strewn with after dinner snacks, cups of tea, and a few newspapers, folded to the crossword), “I’m done. I’ll head to bed, now.”

Gwaine follows him, yawning, tripping over his own feet as he tries to kick his shoes off. Percival goes into the bathroom, first, and raises an eyebrow when Gwaine follows, but doesn’t protest. Gwaine brushes his teeth while Percival pisses and washes up.

“You have a toothbrush?” Percival asks.

“Carry it everywhere,” Gwaine says, grinning, “got to keep my smile beautiful.”

Percival laughs. Gwaine likes his laugh. They move towards the bedroom at the same time and get stuck in the doorway, which leads to more of that laughing. At last, though, despite themselves, they reach the bed and collapse onto it. Gwaine smushes his face into the pillows, wriggles under a bit of duvet, and readies himself for sleep.

It takes him exactly fifteen minutes to get to sleep, he knows. He’s perfected it. He counts his breaths. He sleeps light enough that he’s not worried about watching his back, seeing as there’s no indication Percival might be violent. Gwaine starts letting his thoughts come and go without examining them. He finds the thought that has been humming the same bit of a song over and over all day and taps it on the head, sending it away. He breathes deeply and evenly.

”What’s it like, being a spy?” Percival says, softly, interrupting the process.

“Not like the movies. More paperwork,” Gwaine mumbles, restarting his sleep programme.

“If I work for you guys, will I be able to stop running? Will I be safe?”

Gwaine sighs and turns onto his back. He considers his answer carefully.

“No. You’ll be safe, we’ll keep in touch and keep an eye on you and you won’t have to fight your battles alone. But you’ll still have to keep under the radar. You’ll have to keep living like this. It’s what makes you an asset.”

“An asset.”

“You’re useful to us.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then you’ll be brought back to the UK, with or without your consent, arrested, and brought in to the office for questioning. You might end up being accidentally misplaced. I don’t know, it depends how much of what you’ve done was really you.”

“Right.”

“It’s not a bad deal. You’ll get paid, though not a huge amount. You’ll get access to some safe houses. You’ll be protected. You’ll get to help.”

“Really.”

“Really really. We’re not MI5, or the CIA, or anyone like that. Magic Branch is much more informal. We’re run by a government oversight committee, but to all intents and purposes, we answer to the International Sorcery Guild.”

“ISG isn’t all bad, I suppose.”

“I answer to my partner, who’s a sorcerer and Guild member. Partnerships always have at least one member. You’d answer to whoever they partnered with. I have a hunch that’d be Mordred, who’s a complete tit but also very nice and properly decent.”

“I wouldn’t answer to Arthur.”

Gwaine starts. People aren’t supposed to know about Arthur, and if they know about him, they’re not supposed to know his name.

“I told you,” Percival says, “I worked with Morgana. She’s free with her information, especially when it involves Arthur.”

“He’s a complicated man, in a complicated position. I think you’ll like him, actually. But no, you won’t answer to him. Sometimes it’ll feel like you answer to him,” Gwaine says, getting in a good grumble, “yelling and stomping and demanding things. But you can also just give him the finger. Which, by the way, I highly recommend. He goes a very strange colour.”

Percival laughs softly, and Gwaine turns to look at him. He can just make out his face in the dim light, the line of his jaw, his nose, his eyes.

“You’re something else, you know that?” Percival says, turning to him and meeting his eyes, “call me Percy. Everyone else does, no one’s used ‘Percival’ since I turned about eight.”

“Percy. Alright. You can call me Gwaine, if you like.”

“Not John?”

“I’m not a student at Gothenburg uni, either,” Gwaine says, smiling.

“Do you have a code name? Like…”

“Like?” Gwaine asks.

“Falcon. Wolverine. Pheonix.”

Gwaine smiles wider, touching Percy’s cheek.

“Comic book nerd? Awesome. Merlin uses various codes with me. Calls me ‘strength’ over the radio, if we have listeners.”

“Strength.”

“Yeah. It’s stupid. We’re friends, him and me. It’s affectionate,” Gwaine concedes, feeling embarrassed.

Percival hums, eyes closing. Gwaine wants to ask if he can kiss him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets his hand drop from Percy’s face and closes his own eyes.

“Thank you, Gwaine,” Percy says.

Gwaine starts his falling asleep programme again, and this time Percy doesn’t interrupt.

Gwaine wakes, startled. He’s not sure what brought him so suddenly out of sleep, but he’s aware of his body, ready for something. He’s held in the circle of Percy’s arms, and he’s pretty sure he was snuggled up against Percy’s chest, before he woke. He listens, charting the sounds and categorising them, looking for the out of place. Percy snuffles, then whines, then cries out, head twisting on the pillow.

Gwaine relaxes. He rests against Percy’s chest, and wraps an arm around him, rubbing his back. He uses his other hand to pull Percy’s head into the crook of his shoulder, shifting up the bed.

“Shh,” Gwaine says, “Easy does it.”

Percy soothes under Gwaine’s expert care, falling into a deeper sleep again, holding Gwaine close. Gwaine smooths his hand down Percy’s back and closes his eyes again, resting for a bit before falling back asleep.

Next time he wakes it’s with Percival’s encouragement and the promise of a cup of coffee, from the smell of things. He’s surprised he didn’t wake, if Percy’s been out of bed and back. He frowns, and lets himself drift to the surface, blinking warily at Percy.

“How’d you get coffee on without me noticing?” He asks.

“Didn’t. It’s on a timer.”

“Oh. Good.”

He relaxes again, and takes Percival in. He’s up on one elbow, looking down at Gwaine. He looks sleep mussed, well rested. He’s smiling. It’s still dark, the bedside lamp casting the room in warm light. Gwaine smiles.

“Morning,” he says.

“Good morning. It’s about six.”

Gwaine touches Percy’s cheek, finding stubble. Percy smiles and turns his head to kiss Gwaine’s hand.

“Can I kiss you?” Gwaine asks.

Percy smiles harder and nods, bending to capture Gwaine’s lips.


End file.
